


Alone

by missduncan



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:55:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26769850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missduncan/pseuds/missduncan
Summary: Boyd thoughts as he tries to cope during episode Double Blind
Kudos: 6





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Joodiff for the Beta and for always being there for help and guidance
> 
> T-rated for language

With a low grumpy growling, Peter Boyd tears his glasses off and throws them impatiently onto the desk. A motherfucker of a headache is building up in the back of his head, his eyes are burning and his mind is in complete chaos. He's literally up to his eyeballs in shit, and worst of all, it's shit of his own making.

He can't believe it really happened. He can still see her face, very pale with a look of utter shock and disbelief about what she just did. What she said. Biting down her lower lip, she seemed to try to prevent the word from leaving her mouth, but she was too late. For once in her life, she spoke without thinking. Just like he always does... but not her. Never her.

He was offended. Still is. Of course he is. He raised his chin, mostly in defence, deliberately turned his head away, completely ignoring her. Flatly refused to acknowledge her presence in his office. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw how she silently shifted her feet apparently unsure of what to do before she turned around, and headed directly to her own office. A few moments later, she had appeared carrying her jacket and her bag and left the office after a few words to Spence and Stella.

The bloody woman walked out on him. Left him, and so far she hasn't come back. That was never supposed to happen.

Closing his eyes tightly for a moment, Boyd sighs deeply as he leans forward planting his elbows on the desk, pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to still his mind. Just for a moment...

 _We are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with a sleep... We are such stuff as dreams are made on..._ Like a mantra, the words keep repeating themselves in his head. On and on. They're supposed to calm him but they don't. Not a fucking bit.

Every time he closes his eyes, her cold ice-blue angry gaze is staring right back at him from the inside of his eyelids. Burning hot with outrage. They disturb his thoughts and prevents him from thinking straight. They even invade his dreams, making it impossible to sleep. Right now, he's so damn tired... _She_ 's like a damn nightmare haunting him night and day. Three - maybe four hours at the most, is all he's managed to sleep the last couple of days...

It's a bloody fucking nightmare.

Inhaling deeply a couple of times, he tries to find just a tiny bit of equilibrium. Must remain calm, because he needs to be able to cogitate and analyse the leads and facts to solve this bloody case. Needs to prove he's capable of doing it without his profiler. That he doesn't need _her_... only, he knows he does, he muses, shrugging slightly. He needs her so very much. In every aspect of his life – and with this case, her expertise, her knowledge and insight would be so useful and would really make a huge difference. Right now, he's got abso-bloody-nobody to translate what doctor Caroline Ritter says about the patient, his mental state of mind or the drugs he takes – or doesn't take. He has to depend on that damn cigarette-smoking woman now. A bloody psychiatrist, and just like Grace she has a lot of long and incomprehensible words, but without the charm and kindness. Besides, Boyd doesn't really trust her. Not entirely. Not sure she's free of personal interest in the case one way or the other. His gut-feeling tells him she's hiding something...

He reaches for his mug hoping the coffee might help to clear his mind, greedily takes a healthy slurp and almost chokes as he swallows the disgusting shit of cold bitterness. It makes him shiver and in a futile attempt to get rid of the distasteful flavour he shakes his head forcefully, mumbling curses under his breath. Whether they are aimed towards Grace, Doctor Ritter, or the repulsive fluid, he isn't sure and he really doesn't care. Besides, it doesn't help and finally giving in, he puts down the mug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Things like this never happen with Grace around, he reflects. Christ! He misses her. Misses her slipping into his office from time to time during the day for a chat and a fresh brew of coffee or tea. Tiny, cosy moments where they both stop, have a short break. Sometimes, they simply relax in each other's company sharing a quiet chat about everything and nothing. And from time to time it happens that some of those thoughts and random exchanges of words become a seed in their research that grows and develops into something that leads to an important step to the final solution of their cases. They are good for each other. She inspires him, and he inspires her.

These days, nobody brings him freshly-brewed coffee with or without a cosy chat, he ponders. If he wants a drink, he can apparently fetch it for himself... _Bloody minions,_ he grunts.

The sound of Eve's sparkling laughter sounds through the closed office door. Raising his head, casting a glance towards the squad room, he notices them all seated cosily together. Eve, Stella, and Spence. Mugs in their hands, sharing a chat that is lively and highly entertaining by the look of their broad smiles and amused faces. Probably having fun at his expense... He feels isolated. Alone against the whole world and with a case to solve. They all know he can't hold it together without Grace. Worst of all _he_ is fully aware of that. None of them dares say it to his face but he can see it in the way they exchange glances, arching an eyebrow now and then during the team talks.

Idly, his fingers push the mug into position, aligned with his phone and his pen. Straight lines seem to help him remain composed, make him focus his attention. Exhaling slowly through pursed lips, he lowers his hands to the surface of the desk and eases himself up in the chair. Automatically, his head turns towards Grace's office. She's always a sight for sore eyes. Somehow, she always knows when he's looking in her direction and turns her head towards him, locking their gazes for a moment, sending him one of her quiet smiles. So soothing. A warm feeling spreads from his chest throughout his body just at the thought.

But her office is dark and empty. Just like yesterday, the day before, and a lot of days before that. A constant reminder that something isn't right. It feels like a part of his soul has been torn out.

Abruptly, turning away, Boyd shifts his glance towards the squad room again, only to immediately find his eye locked with a – not blue – deep brown gaze.

It's a shock. For both of them when they realise what's happening. Stella instantly breaks the eye contact, looking down. Studying him is she, eh? he wonders. Spying on him more likely. Probably reporting back to Grace about his behaviour and their progress – or lack of same? Quite possible, now he thinks of it. A kind of fucking sister solidarity. Misguided female loyalty.

Indignantly snorting, he nods silently by himself. Could very well be... Thoughtfully, he rubs his beard. Hmm, the certain way they all talk, their words, Eve, Stella and even Spence, every fucking one of them... the ideas they so easily come up with during the team talks – not to mention the way they present their ideas – all sounding like a bloody textbook written by the brilliant, respected, well-esteemed, highly acclaimed psychologist Doctor Grace Foley. It pisses him off. It really does.

They are good people, though. Hardworking, dedicated to the job and to their colleagues. Clever too – some of them more than others. Only their loyalty right now is divided. Herein lies the problem...

He's done his best to make the team function normally, keeping himself more in the squad room than his own office, delegating tasks and making them work together. Keeping them all on their toes. Grace would be so proud of him, he muses.

A hectic penetrating sound disrupts his thoughts and, casting a glance around to find the culprit, he realises it is his own fingers drumming an annoying rhythm on the desk. Immediately, he balls his hand into a fist. Must be careful now not to do that. A clear tell, according to Grace, that shows exactly how vexed and highly-strung he actually is. He fights hard not to lose his temper and only to show a calm and composed look – friendly even. It's tough, though, but so far, he believes he's managed to conceal his irks and annoyances pretty well. He nearly lost his marbles, though, when he asked Eve about repression and denial – after all, she's a highly educated person, a fucking academic – and she had the audacity to reply, eyes sparkling with mirth, that it wasn't her bag. Not her bag! How dare she? He nearly lost his temper there... Bloody hell, it's certainly not _his_ bag either... The memory makes him raise his chin in indignation, makes him square his shoulders and straighten his back in defiance... only to instantly sink back down in his chair. There's nobody to intimidate. No reason to puff himself up like a fucking peacock...

He won't give up, though. It's not his style. He owes it not only to the victim but also to the team and himself. Maybe it'll take him longer to solve the case on his own but hard and methodical work always pays off well. Most of the time anyway... besides, he hasn't been idle during all the years he and Grace have worked together. It may have looked like he didn't listen to her. But he did and he learned.

A soft knocking makes him look up and notice Eve standing in the door frame wearing her jacket. "We're off to the pub. Why don't you join us?"

Regarding her over the rim of his glasses, for a moment Boyd pretends to consider her proposal, then eventually – shaking his head and waving towards the piles of files on his desk – declines and wishes her and the others a good evening.

As soon as he's sure they're out of the way, he unfastens a second button on his shirt and rubs his sore neck, trying to ease the tense muscles. After rolling up his sleeves, he delves in the bottom drawer of his desk and produces a bottle of whiskey. Pouring a healthy glass he gets to his feet and starts to pace around his office.

It's a relief to see the back of them. To be alone.

Moving out into the squad room, he stops in front of the evidence board, perching himself on the edge of Spence's desk. Slowly sipping his whiskey, he studies the photos and notes there, having an intense, mental debate with himself about the facts, clues, and theories they have so far, trying his best to work out what is missing. Might be a simple tiny detail that Grace would be able to find. After all, with her background and knowledge, she has a different approach to many things; her experiences shifts her perspective in another way than is usual for police officers – the reason why he wanted a profiler as part of his team.

After a while, his mind begins to drift, and he retreats into Grace's office. Previously, he's rummaged through her books, looking for the answers he lacks because she isn't there. But tonight he just finds it soothing to sit behind her desk, surrounded by all her knick-knacks. Exhaling deeply, Boyd pushes the chair back, raising his feet. Crossing the ankles he places them on the desk, and sinks back into the chair, his hands clasped behind his neck, supporting his head.

There's still a touch of her perfume in the air. It sweeps around him like an invisible cloud, hinting that she's there beside him. It's comforting. A blessing - like a balm on his soul.

Christ, he misses her. Really needs her.

He's been analysing the situation the best he can. Their relationship. Even had several imaginary conversations with her, explaining why he reacted as he did... why he pushed her so hard she cracked. It wasn't supposed to happen but it did, and it probably came as a shock. For both of them.

Sinking deeper back into her chair, he moves his arms, steepling his hands in front of him. There's something. An idea is starting to form in the back of his mind. What were they talking about right before Grace's outburst?

The necklace... Mel... Now, it finally starts to dawn on him, what went so terribly wrong between them.

The trigger was Mel. That's the reason why Grace couldn't just indulge him or treat him the way she usually does – like a toddler. On the surface, she looks fine but she's not. She isn't healed. The wound is still there, open and hurting like bloody hell. Hurting like he is.

It's a huge relief. The blood flows faster in his veins and breathing seems so much easier. Like a heavy stone has been lifted from his chest. To understand the problem is the first step to a solution.

Full of newly found energy, Boyd jumps to his feet and starts to pace again. He heads towards the coffee-maker. He needs something to clear his mind completely. A freshly brewed cup of strong coffee is what he needs. Then they need to talk... and this time, he'll be the one to reach out a hand.

With a filled mug in hand, he returns to her office. Comfortably seated behind her desk, he mentally prepares himself for the coming ordeal before reaching out for the desk phone. If he wants her back – and that's definitely his wish – he's got a lot of grovelling to do.

Dialing her number, holding his breath, Boyd listens to the repeated ringing tone. She doesn't answer...

Then suddenly, as he's about to give in and hang up, her voice sounds in his ear.

"Grace Foley... "


End file.
